


A Wrestler's Figure

by MobyChick22, morgonic (MobyChick22)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, College!AU, Infatuation, M/M, Obsession, Oops, Slow Build, Stalking, artist!Cas, wrestler!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MobyChick22/pseuds/MobyChick22, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MobyChick22/pseuds/morgonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started as a simple project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 It only started as a project.

 

You could sit and call Castiel a creep – you could call him whatever you wanted, really. But name-calling would never change the fact that Castiel was an artist. Or, at least, that's what every school faculty member and every classmate had been telling him his entire life. That must make it true. Right?

Either way, whether Castiel could rightfully be called an artist or not, he was merely partaking in a study. A study of the human form, if you will. The Novak had been required to take a Figure Drawing course in order to earn his degree, and – so far – it had been the most depressing art course he had taken in his life. Castiel had always been a talented artist, but he was only experienced with drawing scenery and nature.

Castiel was what you would call “outdoorsy”; he was fairly acquainted with and most at ease in the midst of a leaf-covered ground, or a blooming tulip. Some of Castiel's best work had been of flowers – he had actually won a scholarship because of one of his paintings (a ladybug atop a yellow tulip – the stark contrast between the red and the yellow had made for a very aesthetically-pleasing composition, and luckily the judges had recognized his knack for composition).

Anyhow, the point is that the Novak was completely and utterly out of his element in that class. Each composition so far was utter trash in his eyes – he couldn't even draw a simple body. He was steadily working on facial features, but he needed a more 3D model.

That was when he found Dean.

 

Dean Winchester was probably the most valuable specimen when it came to modeling. Castiel had never actually come into contact with the wrestler, but he certainly knew his name. Everyone at Whitewater University did. He also knew that Dean was a rarity that belonged in the modeling industry. Maybe even a museum.

But, whether or not Dean would ever actually consider modeling, for now... he was Castiel's model.

Okay, this is probably a vital point to mention that Dean did not know that he was modeling for Castiel's art.

And it was definitely not a wrong thing to do on Castiel's part. He never asked the flowers and trees for their permission to draw them in their natural state...

...Okay. So, this was different. And entirely able to be perceived as creepy as all hell. _But_ , artists did things all the time that were perceived as weird or creepy, yet essential to artistic progression. This fell into that category. It definitely was not stalking.

And it wasn't as though Castiel had been wanting to draw Dean before he stumbled upon him. I suppose it would help to tell the story from the top.

Basically, here is the shortened version of the story: Castiel was frustrated beyond belief. The student's confidence in his own art had been steadily declining since the start of the new semester and (therefore) the start of his new courses. This new Figure Drawing course made him feel like he couldn't draw worth shit.

He was sitting outside, by the track, sitting on the bleachers and sketching nature, just to boost his confidence.

“You're doing fine, Castiel,” he murmured to himself, taking a breath in an attempt to will away the impending anxiety attack. “All you need is a little practice. It's just like everything else.”

The Novak had glanced over at the track as the wrestlers came out in their gym shorts and t-shirts, stretching their muscles as they prepared for their cardio workout. Castiel wasn't particularly interested in sports – he drew nature, not bodies – and so he disregarded them, glancing back down at his sketchbook and continuing his work.

_Wait._

Castiel looked back up, suddenly eager, desperation in his eyes. _Bodies_. Bodies! He almost laughed like a madman at the opportunity. Sure, they wouldn't exactly be as still as a model usually would, but it would be a great start. As the wrestlers began their run, Castiel found himself focusing intently on them, trying to decide which one he wanted to draw.

There was Chuck, who looked as though he belonged in the Journalism club rather than the wrestling team. He didn't seem like the best start. There was Benny, tall and bearded and muscular. Castiel shrugged to himself, not sure if he wanted to jump right into bigger musculature. He sort of wanted to start somewhere around average. This was about the time Dean Winchester breached his field of vision. Castiel's eyes widened. _Of course!_ It was too fucking obvious.

Now, Dean was like the Adonis of Whitewater – perfectly symmetrical facial features, perfect body (as far as Castiel could tell... not that he looked a lot). He was the physical embodiment of art; he was the epitome of symmetry, every artist's dream model. And, for now, he was an unwilling participant in Castiel's latest project.

It was after this that Castiel suddenly became obsessed with drawing the human figure. Well, Dean's figure. Okay, he knew that it would be more healthy to add some variety to his models, but there was something about drawing Dean that was so... Well. Whatever it was, Castiel would say that he felt his skills improving each time he drew Dean.

He'd been drawing Dean for weeks now. His art teacher was even noticing his improvement, and her impressed gaze at each new drawing was enough to motivate him to continue. Each practice day, Castiel found himself out on the bleachers, eyes fixed on Dean, pencil ready. But there were only so many sketches he could draw of Dean running, stretching, and the like.

So, he had to get more inventive.

Right now, he was following Dean at a safe and respectable distance, staring down at a book in his hand (though not actually reading it), glancing up every so often to make sure he hadn't lost the guy. This may be the point where one would consider it stalking, but this was nothing like stalking. It wasn't like Castiel was doing this for some... sick, perverted reason. It was all in the name of art, and Castiel would do pretty much anything for the sake of his art.

That was why he was now following Dean through campus, watching him carefully, even as the Winchester neared the fountain in the center of the campus, standing there for a moment, staring at the fountain in what seemed like pretty deep thought. Whatever the guy was thinking, Castiel had no time to ponder as he quickly seated himself on a nearby bench, flipping open his sketchbook to a fresh page and beginning to sketch. He'd barely gotten down the guidelines of Dean's figure when he looked up to see Dean reach into his pocket and pull out a coin, flicking it into the water.

Luckily for Castiel, Dean remained there for a bit, standing in front of the fountain, and Cas could get down most of the important details; then, Dean was turning, dropping his bags onto the ground and sitting on the edge of the fountain. It was then that Castiel could see his face, read the worry written there, the way he clasped his hands and pressed them to his lips, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The scene was enough to distract Castiel for only a few moments, his expression softening and his posture straightening. Then he was shaking his head and redirecting his attention to his sketchbook. This was no time to be concerned for random wrestling stars.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter what anyone said, Castiel was definitely not obsessed.

“What are you doing?” Meg's monotonous voice rang out from behind Castiel where he sat in the library, watching Dean. Castiel nearly yelped, practically jumping out of his skin, and his cheeks flushed pink even as he put on his best glare.

“I'm drawing. What does it look like?”

Sometimes the looks Meg gave Castiel were infuriating, specifically the brand of skepticism she was offering him right now, written in the arch of her brow and the way her eyes narrowed. She made him feel somehow embarrassed, though he had _absolutely nothing_ to be embarrassed about. He would not apologize for art.

“Well, if you really wanna know, it looks like you're staring a hole through Dean Winchester,” she remarked. Castiel wondered if he'd ever seen her with uncrossed arms.

“ _Shh!_ ” Castiel shushed her, glancing in paranoia at the wrestler sitting across the room, nose-deep in a textbook. If Meg got him caught after all this time, he would put out a bounty on her. After a few seconds, he turned back toward Meg, who was looking no less smug than the seconds before. “I'm... studying him.” This was the first time Castiel had voiced this notion aloud, and the absurdity of it made heat rise up his neck. He looked back down at his sketchbook, pouting.

Meg snorted. “'Studying him?'” she repeated, shit-eating grin and all.

“Shut up,” Castiel muttered.

“That's a new one. I probably would've gone with 'stalking,' but terminology schmerminology.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Look, I've only been drawing him for my Figure Drawing class, since he has a nice figure and all, being a wrestler.”

Meg tilted her head to the side as she considered his words. “Don't you think that drawing someone continually without their knowledge is a little sketchy? No pun intended.”

“No,” Castiel replied, already in full-on _pout mode_. Castiel really knew how to pout. It was probably his second most-reputable talent, next to his art.

“Really.” Meg did not sound convinced. Castiel did not care. “Because it seems a little bit like something a stalker would do.”

“I am not--” Castiel paused, glancing around before lowering his voice. “...I am _not_ stalking him,” he said softly, yet emphatically. “Stalking implies some sort of obscene and perverted obsession, which is completely the furthest from the truth here. I'm simply using him as a candid model. It's art.”

“Mm-hm,” Meg hummed, unconvinced, “That's what they all say.”

* * *

 

It had gotten to the point now where Castiel had had to go out and buy himself a new sketchbook, as he'd completely filled his other one with sketches of Dean Winchester. He ignored how Meg continued to tease him and taunt him about the situation, asking things like _Is the shrine finished yet?_ and _Do any of these pages stick together?_

But that was Meg. Just good old Meg, being a sarcastic pain in the ass, but she was his best friend (and pretty much only close friend). He and Meg had a bit of a history together here at Whitewater, and although they'd had some awkward moments in their friendship – like when Meg tried to come onto him only to find out he was gay – they survived the rough, and here they were, close as ever. But that did not make her any less of an ass.

Castiel's latest work of art was of a shirtless Dean drinking from a water bottle; and, as the angle was from behind, the emphasis here was mainly the study of Dean's back muscles, the way they rippled and bunched with every movement, especially as he did his pushups. It was actually quite impressive, and Castiel couldn't help but gaze in awe as Dean performed 20 pushups before even breaking a sweat. But he was always careful not to distract himself from the real mission. He had to be careful not to appear as though he were attracted to the man or anything. That would breach the line of study to stalking.

“Mr. Novak,” Mrs. Johnson mused (though, she'd instructed at the beginning of the semester that her students were to address her as “Hannah.” Her reasoning was that it felt much more personal, and that the intimacy in art called for informality in the classroom). “Your work lately has a recurring theme, I see,” Hannah remarked, and Castiel perked up a bit at that.

“A... theme?” he asked hesitantly, nervous for some odd reason. Hannah smiled, with a nod, as she skimmed through Castiel's sketchbook, drawing after drawing of Dean in various positions and various settings.

“Yes, a theme,” she restated with a nod. “These pieces speak to me about the beauty of the natural human state, about the way we can find art and meaning in the smallest of things. Here you have a man in seemingly usual and normal positions for a man to be in, yet there's something in the composition that brings meaning and passion to it. Something in his face, perhaps-- Here!” Hannah went on to explain how the way Castiel depicted the man's expression even in the most arbitrary situations revealed the sort of 'storm beneath the calm.' “It's beautiful,” she insisted with a smile, closing the sketchbook and setting it back down. “Keep up the good work, Castiel.”

Once Hannah had gone, the Novak was left feeling oddly flustered for some reason, his face burning a slight shade of pink. Perhaps it was the lack of thought he had actually put into his compositions – up until this point, he'd only been copying down what he observed in Dean, the way his body was shaped, rather than paying any attention to the emotion that was conveyed in his body language and facial expression. Really, he'd been trying to avoid paying too much attention to that, as it would most likely give some illusion of familiarity to Dean, but Dean was just a stranger. Dean probably didn't even know of the name _Castiel_.

But Castiel would have been lying if he said that he wouldn't pay any attention to Dean's facial expressions from then on.

* * *

 

“Why don't you try a female model for a change?” Meg suggested, in that slightly caustic tone that she loved to use so often. She and Castiel were walking across campus, heading toward the food court.

“Because I'm still studying the male body. I can't do both at once. I'd rather be drawing perfect male figures and awful female ones as opposed to mediocre male and female figures,” he explained, though it was apparent that Meg knew he was just pulling words out of his ass.

“Clarence, this obsession isn't very healthy for you.”

“I think maybe you're looking for some sort of infatuation where there is none. Can't I just admire the beauty of a particular model? That's why I keep using him.”

“So you think he's beautiful now.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, glancing away as he pouted. “Nothing wrong with appreciating aesthetic,” he replied in a mutter, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. Meg wasn't an artist and didn't really understand the importance of good composition or good reference models. Dean was the perfect reference model, and to a _non-artist_ it could end up seeming like Castiel had a _thing_ for him or something.

But that wasn't true.

* * *

 

_Breath. Golden skin. The curling of arousal in the pit of Castiel's abdomen. He could just barely make out the man's figure, the way his muscles flexed and rippled as he lowered himself atop Castiel, with unshaking arms. Castiel was grabbing at the man, wrapping his arms around him to try and pull him closer, closer, closer, but it didn't seem like he could pull him close enough. There were full, pink lips inches from his own, and freckled skin, and the scent was quite alluring. He wrapped his legs around the freckled man, undulating his hips so as to find some form of contact, but even as his hips connected with the other's, it didn't seem to be enough. He needed more, and the desperation was enough to make him cry – he nearly shed a tear when the man smiled at him, reaching down to wrap his fingers around..._

 

Castiel awoke in a pool of sweat, feeling as though he were on the brink of exploding, and with desperation he reached down, sliding his hand beneath his boxers and tugging. He was gone in two strokes, his body trembling and jerking through his orgasm, and afterward he lay there, breathing slowly and carefully and attempting to wake up.

He'd never had obscene dreams like that (save for one or two about Michael, before that went to shit). He could just barely make out the details of the dream, of the man who'd hovered over him with the body of a god. Or maybe a warrior. Either way, it was some pretty intense shit and Castiel felt weighted to the mattress, his muscles still a little shaky from his climax. Maybe he'd dreamed it because his sex life was essentially dead at this point, with little to no hope of revival any time soon. Whatever the cause of the dream, he sincerely hoped subconscious circumstances allowed him to continue dreaming in bliss for the rest of his nights.

 

Castiel had begun sketching on his own a bit, without his model, to try and hone his abilities. He couldn't just wait around for Dean to present an opportunity, and he certainly couldn't always rely on reference models. So, he sat in campus square, sketching away at the image of a man – the man of his dreams – lowering himself down to an invisible body. It almost looked as though the man were doing pushups, Castiel realized with a hum.

As he sketched, he glanced up to the fountain, where, weeks before, Dean had sat with a look of worry and concentration. Castiel still wondered what it was that plagued the Winchester's mind, what it was that pressed worry lines into his freckled face.

Freckled.

Castiel blinked, frowning and rubbing at his eye before ripping out the newest sketch, balling it up, and tossing it into the nearest recycling bin.

* * *

 

“So,” Meg crooned, “How many creepy drawings have you done of Wankchester today?”

“None.”

“What?”

The expression on Meg's face was one of genuine disbelief, as though she couldn't possibly believe that Castiel could go a day without drawing Dean.

“What?” Castiel echoed, brow furrowed and lips stuck in a pout. He shrugged, hugging his books to his chest as they walked toward the food court. “Is it so hard to believe?”

“Uh, kinda,” Meg replied, eyeing him carefully. Castiel shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny – Meg had a nasty habit of trying to read Castiel, and an incredible rate of accuracy. Castiel didn't much wish to be read right now. Sometimes it was fine to be alone with one's thoughts. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Castiel answered a little too quickly and tried to ignore the way Meg nodded to herself, most assuredly telling herself that something happened. “ _Nothing. Happened_ ,” Castiel emphasized, annoyance clear in his eyes. Meg was never bothered with things like annoyance. She was far too aloof and indifferent about most things to allow herself to be concerned with offending or irritating people.

“Forgive me when I say that I don't believe you,” Meg retorted, one eyebrow still arched in apparent skepticism and Castiel wondered how she had the energy to maintain her sarcastic and deviant personality.

“You don't have to believe me. Because nothing happened.”

“Did he catch you?”

Castiel scoffed, shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes. It was clear that his friend would not let this go until she got the answers she wanted.

“Did someone else catch you?”

“Nobody caught me, Meg. Alright? And suggesting that implies that I'm doing something strange or illegal. I'm just _drawing_ him, alright? There's no deeper meaning, and no odd _obsession_ , or... _infatuation_ or some kind of perverted fantasy involved here.” Castiel's skin felt a bit sticky now, as though it had become increasingly humid within the past few minutes. “A-and, even if there were some sort of fantasy involved, so what? Why stigmatize attraction? It's only human to dream, and only human to desire.” He glanced up at Meg just about the time he let his voice trail off, and instantly flushed pink at the look on her face. Her eyes were wide with delight and there was that hint of a smirk playing at her lips, never quite a full smile, and Castiel knew that he was screwed.

“What?” he demanded after a few moments of deafening silence.

“You've got a hard-on for Wankchester,” she stated coolly, without hesitation or doubt. That was one thing that absolutely infuriated Castiel about Meg Masters. She was completely and utterly sure of herself. The kind of confidence and self-assurance that Castiel (and most everyone else) could only dream of.

“I... I do _not_ ,” he insisted, but he knew that there was no convincing Meg. Or himself. Meg stepped closer to her friend, throwing an arm around his shoulder, shoving a hand in her front pocket as they walked. Regardless of how she seemed, or how much they seemed to differ from each other, Meg was a really good friend. He hoped she knew that.

“Okay,” Castiel conceded, “I think I... may have had a dream about him.” Meg wagged her eyebrows suggestively at that, and Castiel shook his head in exasperation.

“Cas, you've gotten boners over plenty of guys. What's the deal with this one?”

“The _deal_ with 'this one', is that I'm sitting and drawing pictures of the guy daily. If I started doing it with a sexual interest in mind, it _would_ become weird and obsessive.”

“So you're afraid of being a creep?” Meg clarified, looking over at him with that arched brow, her gait casual and loose, causing them to veer left and right. Castiel nodded and shrugged at the same time, agreeing with her, more-or-less.

“Why don't you just go up and ask to draw him?” she suggested, and Castiel looked at her in indignation.

“Yeah, _that_ wouldn't be creepy at all--”

“No, I mean it. You could go up and explain to him that you need a model for an art project. You could even slip in a little pick-up line here or there, huh?” Meg grinned a bit, squeezing his shoulders teasingly. Castiel couldn't help but smirk at his friend, bumping back into her and causing her to trip a little, chuckling softly. It was times like these when Castiel was glad to have such a close friend as Meg.

“I'll think about it.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel struggles with his new series of dreams, and a mid-semester project that is sure to only bring stress and tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I'm awful when it comes to updating. I've been working on this chapter for a while, and it's not exactly the most action-packed, as it's mostly filler and plot-building. Hope it suffices for now, though. I promise I will keep working on this.

Castiel thought about it. He thought about it too much, actually – so much so that he found himself distracted in his classes, and drawing a lot less. The only drawings he did during the next few days were mindless doodles of one thing or another. None of them were of Dean.

He was considering, now, just cutting the 'Dean' project short. Despite Meg's obviously-not-the-worst suggestion he just found himself feeling odd, and perhaps a little more reclusive. Obviously, this was not an issue of sexuality. Castiel had known he was gay since freshman year of high school. This was perhaps an issue of morality. He felt like a creep taking pictures of someone from afar and hanging them up on his wall. What was next? Creating a fucking voodoo doll?

All-in-all, he just felt gross about the whole thing.

“What changed?” Meg had asked him. “So you now think the guy is hot. So what? You're still just drawing him, like before.”

Castiel had pondered this heavily over the last few days, and he'd come to the possible conclusion that maybe it was less about what he was doing and more about the fact that he'd been waking up every goddamned day with wet boxer shorts and a raging erection. The content of his dreams was becoming increasingly more graphic as the days went on, and even though he was the same age as the wrestler, it all felt very American-Beauty-esque. Castiel was a loser. That was really what it came down to.

His artist's block had become much more of a problem than it seemed to be in the first place. His Figure Drawing professor had given the class a huge mid-semester project.

“The theme of your drawing should be 'natural beauty.' Capture a candid scene, one that seems natural and relaxed, but one that provokes some sort of emotion as well.” Hannah had looked toward Castiel at that, lips pursed in a smile. “I'm sure that will not be difficult for some of you.”

But, oh, was that the furthest from the truth. Castiel knew that he couldn't just use one of his previous sketches of Dean. He would have to create an entirely new composition, and he would have to find a model. He knew that he shouldn't dare ask Meg, because he knew that Meg did not enjoy modeling, and that she would only bring up _“Wankchester.”_ He would have to search far and wide, considering he basically only had one friend.  


* * *

  
“What are the requirements of this project?” The British man inquired, clasping his hands under his chin, leaning forward on his elbows as he gazed at Castiel with a curious furrowed brow.

“It's got to be natural and emotional simultaneously,” Castiel explained in a near-murmur, running a hand over his forehead. He was exhausted with stress – too much thought, too many dreams getting in the way, too much anxiety about this _extremely_ inconvenient project. Perhaps Hannah had thought that it would be an easy _“A”_ for Castiel, but in trying to help him she'd actually placed the heaviest burden on his already weighted shoulders.

Balthazar hummed in consideration, glancing up toward the sky as he mulled about the idea.

“Alright. I'll do it,” he declared, prompting Castiel to glance up in confusion.

“Do what?”

“It! Your project! I'll be your model,” he explained, wagging his eyebrows as his lips stretched into a grin that Castiel couldn't remember the man not wearing. Castiel didn't think he'd ever seen Balthazar less than smug.

“Oh. Oh, Balthazar, you don't have to--”

“No, no, please. Consider it done. Just give me a date and an outfit to wear and we'll get this project done,” he said, smacking the picnic table for emphasis. “No need to worry your pretty little mind any further.”

Castiel smiled weakly, sighing in visible relief. He suddenly felt very tired. “Thank you, Balthazar.”

“My pleasure, darling.”  
  


* * *

  
“Just take a sip.” Meg shoved the bottle of liquor right beneath Castiel's nose, causing him to cringe, leaning back and shoving away the bottle with a look of disgust plastered on his face.

“No thank you,” he reiterated for what seemed like the thousandth time. Meg had tried many a time to get him to drink with her in the past, and each time he'd turned her down, but Meg was probably the most stubborn person Castiel knew.

“I promise you'll like it,” Meg insisted in a sing-song voice, wiggling the bottle slightly; perhaps that was her way of trying to entice him. Either way, it was not working.

“What is it with your obsession with trying to distract me from my work?” he wondered aloud. Currently, they were sitting on his bedroom floor, and he was hunched over his sketchbook, pencil held firmly between his fingers.

“All work and no play makes Cas a dull boy,” Meg murmured monotonously (try saying that ten times fast), before throwing back another drink of the liquor. She smacked her lips once she'd swallowed, pensiveness evident in the crease between brows as she leaned back against her hand. “Y'know,” she said, “you're probably the most boring friend I have.”

“What other friends do you have?” Castiel shot back with a playful smirk as Meg reached out to kick at his knee, jolting the sketchbook in his lap and causing the pencil to practically rip through the paper. Castiel sighed, ripping out the ruined art and tossing it amongst the trillion other wads of paper littering his bedroom floor. “You could always abandon me to go find some new, more exciting friends. Ones who are willing to jeopardize their GPA for a temporary night of fun.”

“Do you ever get tired of being a prude?”

Castiel glanced slowly up at Meg, watching in indignation as she took another swig from her bottle. He expected to find a small smirk on her face, but when he found nothing but seriousness, he scoffed, shaking his head.

“I am _not_ a prude.”

“Awful prudish of you to say,” Meg shot back coolly, kicking her feet casually, as though to a beat.

“It doesn't make me a _prude_ to want to get a good grade, and graduate with a degree, so I can actually make something of my life. It makes me that much closer to ending up successful somehow. I'm not a prude just because I wanna _be_ someone, and recognize the importance of responsibility.”

A long but not-very-tense silence lingered between the two college-goers, before Castiel finally looked up to meet Meg's eye, recognizing a look that said, “you're being a little too over-dramatic and you know it.” After a moment and an eye-roll that Meg was used to by now, Castiel exhaled exasperatedly and grabbed the bottle from her hands, tilting it back and taking a swig which burned its way down his esophagus and somehow managed to leave traces in his nasal passage. Crinkling his burning nose, he handed it back, muttering, “Happy now?” With the pleased look on Meg's face, Castiel worried that he'd crossed through some sort of gateway, straight into Meg's trap. It wouldn't be long until she'd be attempting to drag him to parties, or get him into some other sort of trouble outside of his comfort zone. He just hoped that the liquor would hold her off for a while.

 


End file.
